


Winter Story

by boxparade



Series: Apartment Story [3]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Eloping, M/M, Marriage, Mile High Club, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:16:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxparade/pseuds/boxparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon laughs, buries his face into Spencer’s neck, and comes.</p><p>He thinks it’s a pretty damn good way to start the morning.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(Can be read as stand-alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Story

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been crap at writing sex. Mostly because I haven't tried. This is my first real attempt in awhile. This is the first time I've ever posted it. I'm a little terrified? But it's okay.
> 
> Whatever. The last story in the series is all fluff. Mostly. But yes. Don't eviscerate me? That would be nice.
> 
> One day I'd like to have people to thank here. But for now everything I write is a closely guarded secret until I post it.

Brendon laughs, buries his face into Spencer’s neck, and comes. 

He thinks it’s a pretty damn good way to start the morning.

Moments flicker by and Brendon doesn’t try to hold on to any of them, just lets himself flow with it like the tide, working with the surf instead of against it, like surfing. He’s figured out that there’s no reason to try to will time to go faster or slower; it’s just going to pass by at whatever speed it pleases.

“Good morning to you, too,” Spencer grumbles, trying to sound pissy but only thinly masking his amusement, so Brendon can still tell. Brendon hums something against Spencer’s neck, and it’s almost like a tune but it’s not. He doesn’t particularly care what it is right now, not with Spencer warm and sated beneath him, breathing in a slow, steady rhythm that Brendon tries to match with his own breath.

Sometimes, Brendon likes to slide down until his head is right over Spencer’s chest; likes to press his ear against the warm skin there, counting off the heartbeats, trying to memorize the exact rhythm and the time between the beats. Sometimes, he can feel his own heart beating along with Spencer’s in time, and even though it only lasts moments, it’s still worth it to know that they’re that much closer to being one. He likes feeling that close to someone.

“We need to get up,” Spencer mumbles, but he doesn’t seem particularly inclined to move, so Brendon stays where he is.

“No, we don’t,” Brendon says arbitrarily. “We need to go back to sleep.”

“It’s almost noon, Bren,” Spencer sighs, exasperated, and makes a half-hearted attempt to roll Brendon off of him. Brendon clings purposefully tighter and he smiles when Spencer makes an annoyed squeak and settles back down underneath him. “We are _not_ sleeping the whole day,” he tacks on in a last-ditch effort to change the direction things are going.

“What do you call what we just did?” Brendon asks slyly, eyes bright when he looks up, something darker lurking just beneath the surface. “Because _that_ , Spencer Smith, was not sleeping.” Spencer cocks an eyebrow at Brendon, one of his silent _I’m-judging-you-so-hard_ looks, and Brendon grins with all his teeth. “Therefore,” Brendon enunciates carefully, trying to sound all worldly and academic. He hopes he gets it. “We could spend the rest of the day sleeping, and we still would not have slept the whole day. Because we did that. So there.” Brendon grins again, hopes Spencer can feel the pure force he puts behind it.

Spencer just rolls his eyes, shifts a little underneath Brendon, and says “You say this as if it’s going to change my mind.”

Brendon just keeps on grinning, because Spencer is totally a sucker for his smiles, he would know. But, with some strange new power that Spencer must’ve only just acquired, he manages to tug Brendon off him and roll out of bed, awkward with his limbs as he stumbles towards the bathroom. Brendon would be whining, but he’s a little distracted by Spencer’s ass, and before he even has a chance to comment, Spencer snaps the door shut behind him and the water starts running.

Brendon sighs, tired, and collapses back onto the bed. He’s asleep before he can hear Spencer ask if he wants to join him.

 

When Brendon wakes up, the sun is warm enough that he knows it’s late afternoon, and he’s starting to regret not showering when Spencer did, because he’s basically glued to the sheets. It’s kind of disgusting, and he opens his mouth to say as much, only to find there’s a pool of drool against his cheek. He groans, sits up with uncertainty, and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. Spencer’s nowhere to be seen, and it takes Brendon a moment, but he wakes his limbs up enough to get out of bed and pull the sheets away from his body, wincing at the uncomfortable pull. They’re going to have to do more laundry. 

He’s tempted to just say screw it and go find Spencer as is, but he can’t find the boxers he was wearing and there’s no way in hell he’s pulling on a clean pair when he’s coated in sweat and come and hell knows what else. He trudges into the bathroom, pouting about the fact that he didn’t get to shower with Spencer even though it’s technically all his fault, and takes the quickest shower known to man.

Spencer’s sitting by the window when Brendon gets out, trailed by a blanket of steam rolling over the floor, a fresh pair of pajama pants slung low on his hips because he figures they should at least pretend they’re willing to do anything besides have sex.

He wraps his arms around Spencer from behind and tries to see what he’s seeing, but mostly he just sees a sheet of white, snowflakes clinging to the glass with abandon, blanking out their crappy view of the office complex across the street. Brendon’s stopped understanding how he ever could’ve wanted to live in the city like this.

“Do you think we could get snowed in?” He asks lightly, and it holds more excitement than fear by now. Five years ago, he would’ve been afraid the world was ending if they’d ever gotten enough snow to keep them in one place. He’s adjusted to the Chicago winters.

Spencer shrugs. “Looks worse than it is,” he answers vaguely, rolls his neck as Brendon works his fingers into the knots still hiding under the skin on Spencer’s shoulders. He was almost certain he’d worked most of them out by now, but apparently not, because Spencer was still tense and taut enough to snap like a spring wire if Brendon could get the right angle.

“Do you think anyone’s gonna come looking for us?” Brendon asks, bites his lip because he’s trying not to give away exactly how worried he is under all this love and sex and snow. Spencer probably knows anyway, because Spencer always knows, but he doesn’t say anything and Brendon’s grateful for that.

“I don’t think so,” Spencer answers honestly, but Brendon can see his reflection against the whited-out window and there’s a small crease between his eyebrows. “Then again, Pete’s probably going to get involved.”

“Are you kidding? He’s already all over this. Who do you think’s been calling nonstop?”

“Point.”

Brendon slithers around the chair and drapes himself over Spencer’s lap, sprawling and content. It isn’t something they’ve been talking about. That thing. That thing that they did. It’s as if they’re ashamed or something, which Brendon knows they’re not, but it feels—weird. In the sense that it makes Brendon’s chest flutter. He thinks it’s a good flutter because every time he feels it, he never wants it to stop.

He curls up, tucks his face into Spencer’s shoulder, not as tense as before. He brings his knees up so they press into the soft padding of Spencer’s stomach, just lightly, not enough to make him pull away when he realizes Brendon is doing that thing where he basically obsesses about the little extra pudge Spencer has hiding under his shirt. He doesn’t understand why Spencer hates it when he does that. Brendon’s always going to think Spencer’s gorgeous.

Spencer watches the snow fall and fall and Brendon watches Spencer’s neck move in waves with his breath. A stillness settles in him and it’s a little scary because Brendon is so rarely still. But this is Spencer. Spencer does this to him, so it shouldn’t be surprising. Not anymore.

“We should make snow angels.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Brendon asks, sticking out his lower lip even though Spencer can’t see.

“It’s cold,” Spencer answers simply.

“That’s the _point,_ it can’t be snowing without cold.” Brendon just wants to make snow angels, and maybe a snow-man or a snow-dog. There might also be an epic snowball fight showdown, but Brendon doesn’t mention that part.

“We can’t go outside. Remember?”

Brendon sighs, put-upon, and has to admit that Spencer has a point. He hates it when Spencer does that. He’s the voice of reason in this relationship, and while everyone keeps telling him it’s good, that Spencer grounds him, well—sometimes he still wishes he were a free agent. He likes having Spencer more, but he misses his antics. He’d met a lot of interesting people over the years.

“But there’s _snow._ ” He tries to emphasize exactly how much this matters, but Spencer’s never really understood Brendon’s crazy obsession with the snow and how every second of a snowstorm should be put to good use. “Real snow. What’s better than snow?”

He can feel Spencer’s laugh rumble through the skin of his throat, and it tickles Brendon’s nose a bit. It takes Brendon a moment to get what he thinks is funny, but when he does there’s a grin the size of Alaska on his face because sometimes, Spencer gives him the best ideas.

“Spencer, Spencer. Spence. Let’s have sex.”

“No.”

“ _What?”_ That’s impossible. It’s sex. Spencer doesn’t say no to sex; pretty much no living being says no to sex, especially not with Brendon Urie.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re the one that wouldn’t go back to sleep!”

“Whatever,” Spencer says, breathes out slowly like he does when he smokes, keeps his eyes fixed forward on the snow tapping against the window and he lets Brendon watch him. This doesn’t always happen. Sometimes, when Brendon pulls back just to watch him, watch his expression and the way his jaw moves, he gets pissy and tells him to knock it off. But rarely, he doesn’t.

Brendon wonders what it is about this day that makes it different for Spencer.

“Are you mad at me?” Brendon asks, because sometimes he misses these things. Sometimes Spencer doesn’t tell him, keeps it a secret for weeks. He hates those times.

“No. Just tired.” He sounds honest, and Brendon’s pretty sure he’s not being sarcastic. He’s gotten better at catching that. “Maybe a little weird.”

Spencer shrugs and Brendon puts his head back on his shoulder because it’s warm. Spencer’s telling him the truth and that’s all he needs, so he quiets down, lets his body go lax on Spencer’s, and they both fall asleep in the oversized chair that still isn’t big enough for two people while the snow keeps falling.

 

When Brendon wakes up, it’s dark out and he realizes that maybe sleeping through the whole day is a little boring. There are so many other things they could’ve done in that time. If Spencer hadn’t been tired. And if Brendon hadn’t wanted Spencer to get some sleep, which, he’s found out, is only going to happen in the middle of the day if Brendon falls asleep on top of him. Spencer thinks naps are overrated.

Spencer’s still clinging to the fringes of sleep when Brendon crawls out of his lap, pads to the kitchen with the careful steps of someone that knows exactly how much noise it takes to wake their significant other. They don’t have much by way of food, not when the past weekend had mostly consisted of half-lucid, blurry trips that were not the result of any sort of drug. They should really stop smoking pot if they can get that high without it. It’s supposedly bad for you. Something about brain cells. Ryan was on about it for awhile before the whole cocaine thing, and then pretty much all his opinions on drug consumption were invalidated forever.

Brendon pops a couple of toaster strudel into the toaster because it’s easy and he kind of wants to make shapes with the frosting. He doesn’t know what shapes he’s going to make until it pops out and he looks over at the top of Spencer’s head poking out above the chair’s back. He smiles, and doesn’t lick the extra frosting off his fingers until after he’s sure his masterpiece is done and carefully placed on the plate.

He wakes Spencer up as slowly as he can manage, petting at the nape of his neck, tickling at his stomach, scratching his fingers in his beard. Eventually he deigns to open his eyes, and Brendon starts to see the beginnings of his bitch face, but he smiles as bright as he can and wards it off. Mostly with the promise of gooey toaster strudel hovering right under Spencer’s nose. He looks down, looks back up at Brendon, and one of his eyebrows sleepily crawls up his forehead. Brendon almost bursts out laughing because even his cocked-eyebrow look is sleepy.

“It’s not morning.”

“No, it’s like nine at night. You just kept sleeping, it’s not my fault.” Brendon smirks and chews on his lower lip without trying to be particularly seductive, at least not until Spencer has woken up enough to get some coordination. He doesn’t want his toaster strudel covered in carpet fiber.

“Nine in the afternoon,” Spencer rumbles and laughs, then kisses Brendon and reaches for one of the strudels. Brendon whacks his hand away and says “No, looking before eating, Spencer. That is the rule, the Toaster Strudel rule. You have to look at the wonderful frosting decorations before you eat it. That’s the whole _point._ ”

Spencer doesn’t comment on his little Toaster Strudel rant, but Brendon figures that’s warranted because Spencer is actually probably still exhausted. Spencer listens, though, and looks down at the plate before promptly bursting into laughter. “Brendon, why is there a penis on my toaster strudel?”

Brendon grins, picks up the other strudel with the heart on it, and takes a bite out of the corner. “Because. This is what we are now.”

Spencer nearly chokes on his tongue. Brendon’s glad he hasn’t tried the toaster strudel yet, he might not make it all the way through. “We’re— Is this— Are you defining our relationship as toaster strudel with a heart and a penis drawn on them?”

“Exactly. Well, sort of.” Spencer doesn’t look too patient this morning (afternoon, evening, whatever) so Brendon hurries on. “See, we’re a pair, right? The penis is the sex part, which we were doing before, and the heart is the love part, which, you know, was also happening before, but now they’re written down and immortalized on a piece of paper—er, strudel. And… It means— It’s supposed to— It’s a metaphor for— _I’m fucking tired too, leave me alone_.” Spencer laughs, takes a bite out of the penis-strudel and waggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and then it really doesn’t matter what Brendon meant to say with this whole strudel business because they have this and it’s meaning enough.

Neither of them have mentioned the fact that the reason they’re tired is because they’ve been having impossible amounts of sex on every available surface, and sometimes standing if no surface was immediately available. Brendon hasn’t stopped walking funny since they got off the plane.

Which is why it was probably a very stupid idea to suggest more sex, but really, what else was there to do?

“So, hey, wanna have married sex?”

Spencer blinks and swallows the last of his toaster strudel, luckily without choking, and watches what Brendon assumes to be a spot of frosting on his chin before looking away and meeting Brendon’s eyes. He’s got his skeptical look back on.

“Married sex?”

“Yes, exactly. We should have married-sex, we haven’t had it yet.”

Spencer coughs in a way that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, but Brendon doesn’t say anything about it. He’s pretty sure if he opens his mouth, this entire conversation is going to devolve completely into incomprehensible laughter and they’re never going to get anywhere with the whole sex thing. He really wants that part to happen.

Spencer shifts in his seat and keeps watching Brendon speculatively. “What do you call what we’ve been doing for the past 24 hours, then?”

“That’s adrenaline-rush sex, Spencer. Duh.”

“Right.”

“Because we were all high on adrenaline and so we had sex to expend energy and kept having sex until all the adrenaline was used up. And now that it’s the morning after we have to have married sex.” Brendon sticks out his lower lip in what he hopes is a quite convincing manner and gives Spencer his best puppy dog eyes.

“But… We didn’t really get married.”

People could probably hear Brendon’s heart breaking from a mile away, because yeah, they were pretty drunk, but they weren’t _that_ drunk, alright? Brendon would totally remember if the whole thing was fake. There’d be, like…an Elvis officiating and ring pop rings from Walmart and a homeless guy as a witness. And, okay, so maybe the guy sitting there watching did look pretty scruffy, but there’s no way he was homeless. Not really.

“But— But—”

Brendon doesn’t really know where to go with this, but the puppy dog sad-eyes are maybe not so fake anymore, but he gets distracted by Spencer rolling his eyes and saying “We _eloped,_ Brendon. That’s different than getting married.”

“What?”

“Because,” Spencer goes on, and he seems a bit more awake now, which is probably good for the whole sex part of the plan. Maybe not so good for Brendon’s maybe-faulty reasoning. “Wouldn’t married sex come with all the anticipation of planning the wedding and going crazy for months and having everyone you know and love watch you sign your life over to someone else?”

Brendon raises and eyebrow and says “Well aren’t we cynical.”

“No, but you get what I mean?” Spencer blinks at Brendon like he’s really supposed to understand all of this.

“Not a clue.”

“Married sex. It’s like…sex that you know about months in advance. Everyone has sex on their wedding night, everyone knows what day their wedding night is going to be on for months. It’s all planned out and there’s cake and dancing and—”

“Hey, we danced!”

“And generally you don’t get the sound of slot machines coming through the walls of the _church_ that…wasn’t really a church, now that I think about it.”

Brendon collapses back into his seat and looks at Spencer with squinted, speculative eyes. He thinks Spencer’s working his way around to something involving more awesome sex, but it’s really a grab bag because he could just as well end up convincing Brendon why they _shouldn’t_ have sex. Brendon’s not sure it’s possible, but hey, a guy can try.

“But Spencer—” Brendon has this epic plan that involves a lot of whining and pouting and maybe a few seductive looks but he never really gets the chance.

Spencer grins like a maniac, a glint in his eye. “We can have _eloped_ sex.”

Brendon’s grin echoes his in a second and he says “I like that plan” right before he launches himself out of his seat and on top of Spencer. He bites at the soft skin of Spencer’s neck, still warm from winter sun and sleep, and Spencer makes a small whimpering sound before reminding Brendon that they have a bed.

“Beds are for sleeping,” Brendon argues against Spencer’s skin, and his hands are working down toward the hem of Spencer’s shirt. He has plans for this chair. Brendon doesn’t know if he’s let Spencer fuck him in this chair yet, he kind of wants to try it out.

“And _sex_. Beds are for sex.”

“Your argument is invalid,” Brendon mumbles, and then tears Spencer’s shirt over his head and moves his mouth down to Spencer’s collarbone, where there’s already a bruise layered on top of another bruise from last night. He can’t quite remember if this particular bruise is from the fake chapel or from the limo ride back to the plane. It might also be from the plane itself. Brendon’s still not entirely sure on the height requirements for the Mile High club, but he’s pretty sure having sex on a (mostly empty, red-eye) flight twice in one night counts for something.

Spencer mumbles something that sounds like giving in and Brendon smiles. He mumbles back, nothing important, just syllables so Spencer can feel the vibrations on his skin. He may overdo it sometime when he reaches Spencer’s stomach though, because Spencer giggles and says “Dude, that tickles, stop it. What the fuck?”

Brendon grins and looks up at him, then promptly shoves his hand down Spencer’s pants. It cuts off his laughs pretty damn quick.

“Hmm, I think chairs are pretty damn good for sex, too.” Brendon shifts his hips and the soft, loose fabric of Spencer’s pajama pants slide farther down his thighs.

“Are n—”

Brendon twists his hand a bit, probably a little rough but he knows what Spencer likes, and everything is shrouded in sticky, trapped heat inside the flannel anyway. Spencer’s words give out to something akin to a whimper, and Brendon smiles because he’ll never forget the first time he made Spencer sound like that. They were young, then, and stupid. Maybe not young enough to have sex in the back of the car when Spencer finally got around to telling Brendon he thought he was hot. But young enough to press each other against the chipped paint in the hallways of the apartment complex Brendon was living in then, where any of the neighbors could’ve seen, but didn’t.

Which is why Brendon knows this isn’t too much for him. Because Spencer knows, and Brendon knows, that every touch and every movement carries the weight of a thousand memories, and that overshadows anything else. The implicit trust that Spencer has in Brendon not to hurt him, and vice versa, mean that even when things get a bit new, there’s never any hesitation. They both know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that things will never get out of hand. They’re not like that; they trust each other too much.

That’s probably why they flew halfway across the country and got married on a whim.

For whatever reason, that thought is insanely hot to Brendon, and his lips are searching blindly for Spencer’s, hot and open and messy but with just enough pure _want_ to make up for the beard burn Brendon’s probably going to have later. Neither of them have shaved since long before leaving for Vegas.

“Clothes, off,” Spencer pants between kisses, and it’s ridiculous because they haven’t been this desperate over just kissing since they were teenagers and too scared to try anything even remotely out of the ordinary.

“Yeah,” Brendon breathes his agreement, and then shucks his shirt and shoves his pants down in one swift move, kicking them off to the side and standing with a smirk in front of Spencer, who’s still sitting and just a little bit distracted from the problem of his own pants because Brendon is shameless.

But Spencer swallows and then rolls his eyes. “Showman.”

“You know you love it,” Brendon says, and then, because Spencer’s hands seem a little stalled and way too slow, leans down and yanks off Spencer’s pants so they’re in a puddle at the foot of the chair. Brendon doesn’t give himself a moment to step back and look, instead just settles himself right back down on top of Spencer’s thighs. He knows if he started looking, it’d probably take a damn long while before he could get to the actual sex part, and he’s kind of really excited for that part.

Instead, he gets back to the kissing, because kissing is good and that beat of a second after everyone’s naked, but the touching part had to pause so they could get to the naked part, that’s usually pretty awkward. It’s not anymore, not with Spencer, but Brendon still gets that butterfly feeling in the pit of his stomach that used to be connected with ideas involving women (and men, once he wised up) running out of the room screaming because that pause between the rush of _sex sex sex_ and the technical aspect of getting naked seemed like the most ideal time to warrant some moment of clarity. In Brendon’s head, all the people he was going to have sex with would wake the fuck up in that moment and get out while they could, before all the touching and the rush of the moment got back to them.

Considering it never happened, he’s pretty sure he’s not as unattractive as he feels, sometimes. Not that it particularly matters anymore. He’s got Spencer, and even if Spencer ran, there’d still be the issue of the slightly crumpled piece of paper laying around in someone’s jeans pocket, still vainly hoping it’ll get found before the wash and ironed out, framed, and hung on the wall.

Brendon doesn’t really need a piece of paper to prove how much he loves Spencer. He just needs a little spit and that twist of his hand, and the moan that rumbles from Spencer’s throat is answer enough. Brendon covers Spencer’s mouth with his own again, but it’s a lot less like kissing and a lot more like breathing the same air and bumping noses sometimes. Brendon’s hips keep rocking involuntarily downward, and Spencer’s keep rocking upward, and before long Spencer’s hands find their way to Brendon’s hips and shove him down hard.

Brendon’s breath catches and he moves his hand a little faster, just fast enough to draw out high-pitched whines and strangled breath through bitten lips. “Want you…in me,” Brendon whispers between gasps for air, and no one’s touched his dick yet but he can feel the muscles in Spencer’s thighs tensing and releasing, and something in his body takes that with all the anticipation it implies.

“Lube,” Spencer grits out, always so fucking technical, and if he weren’t completely right Brendon would probably pinch him somewhere until he yelped, because sometimes the whole damn process of sex is so annoying when all either of them wants is just to get off.

Granted, they could just keep going and jerk each other off, but Brendon’s got this soreness in his thighs that he kind of wants to add to, and he kind of wants to ride Spencer so hard that he’s _literally_ unable to walk. Then Spencer can bring _him_ toaster strudel and he’ll have a valid excuse for spending all day in bed, either sleeping or having sex with Spencer.

Not that he hasn’t done just fine with the frail excuses he has now.

Brendon groans, gives Spencer’s cock a firm squeeze, and then climbs up onto broken limbs with a heavy head to attempt to find lube before they both lose their hard-ons and have to actually work back up to them. Brendon’s kind of tired.

“Check the—” Spencer waves an arm around uselessly, over his head which is tipped back over the back of the chair, eyes closed and throat stretched and curved so Brendon can see every breath he takes. He really doesn’t have time to look right now, at least not according to his shamefully neglected hard-on. “The drawer, with the thing.”

As ambiguous as that is, it’s a testament to the strength of their relationship that Brendon knows exactly where Spencer’s referring to, and he scurries across the cool tile of the kitchen to dig around in one of their many junk drawers, the one they always lose their keys in. “I can’t find any,” Brendon says, after Spencer starts getting impatient and Brendon’s checked every possible drawer they own.

He’s about to open up the fridge and look in there when Spencer rises suddenly and practically struts over to Brendon, rolling his eyes when Brendon catches him but smiling like he knows something anyway. And, lo and behold, the first drawer Spencer pulls open has a tiny bottle of lube hidden in plain sight next to those little shampoo bottles you get from the hotel. Brendon’s inclined to think the lube is from there too, but he feels like he would remember if a hotel ever gave them complimentary lube. That would just be too funny to pass up.

Of course, they never make it back to the chair because Spencer smirks proudly when he holds it up, and Brendon gets a little sheepish, and then they’re kissing and Brendon’s back is digging into the edge of the counter. It’s okay though, because he’s fairly sure he’s never had sex on this counter, either.

Spencer traps Brendon between his arms, presses against him until Brendon’s stretching back over the counter like a goddamn contortionist, and he’s about to remind Spencer that just because they’re from Vegas does _not_ mean he can do the things the crazy Cirque du Soleil people do, but then Spencer gets one steady palm under Brendon’s thigh and hoists it upward so quickly that Brendon slides back over the counter just to keep from straining something. It’s a little sad, how easy it is to do that, now.

“We’re getting old,” Brendon mumbles, but Spencer’s confused “hm?” goes unanswered because they’re sweeping electric bills off the island counter and Spencer’s climbing up over him, one hand on his shoulder, pressing it against the cool of the granite. Brendon winces and shudders, says “cold” like he really expects anything to come of it. All he gets is Spencer telling him to shush and pressing his head against the counter with just their lips touching.

The counter warms up pretty damn quick after that.

Spencer and Brendon are long past the point of going slow, have been for awhile now. Brendon tries to figure out why that is—when they finally started trusting each other enough to not worry about scaring the other one off—but he gets kind of distracted because Spencer’s got two freezing, wet fingertips pressed against his ass and “Holy _shit,_ ” Brendon says.

Spencer laughs because he’s a jerk and bites down sharply on Brendon’s jaw. He’s fairly sure his neck is now composed entirely of hickeys, so they might as well move on to newer skin, right? Right. That thinking thing? Brendon’s really gotta stop doing that.

Turns out it’s not so hard because Spencer’s fingers slide in, slow as hell because Spencer is a fucking tease, and then twist and curl and hit that one spot that sends electric sparks up Brendon’s spine. He doesn’t quite remember moaning, but Spencer laughs again as Brendon rocks himself down, every stroke hitting that spot. Brendon doesn’t really care that he’s a shameless whore for finger-fucking. Spencer was the dumbass who married him, so it’s his problem now.

“Getting a little…carried away?” Spencer says, and his voice is coming in short gasps like his breath against Brendon’s chest.

“No,” Brendon says defiantly, shifting his legs up a little higher and arching his back because it curves the electric wires running through him and makes everything last even longer. “Just figured I’d enjoy this, seeing as you—” Brendon stops rocking quite so much, because actually coming just from this is a little embarrassing, but mostly just ruins his plans to move on to other parts of Spencer that Brendon likes quite a bit more. “—you might not be able to…follow through.”

Spencer pulls his forehead away from Brendon’s chest, looks at Brendon just as he smirks, while Spencer’s working three fingers into him. He cocks an eyebrow up, asking “Is that a challenge, Urie?”

He’s way too fucking calm right now.

“Maybe,” Brendon gasps out. It wasn’t meant to be a gasp, except for how Spencer used his free hand to slam Brendon’s hips into the counter and punctuated with a twist of his fingers that zinged around inside Brendon like a goddamn pinball.

Spencer grins, pulls his fingers out so abruptly that Brendon whines pitifully until he feels Spencer reposition himself over Brendon, feels the tip of Spencer’s cock pushing at his entrance, and okay, so he gets a little carried away. Three seconds later, Brendon’s wincing and Spencer’s buried inside of him, Brendon’s legs wrapped around his back and still pulling him forward with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“What th—”

“Just _go,_ ” Brendon pleads, and yeah, it’s a little primitive, but at least it got them past the boring part and Spencer’s hands come up to cover Brendon’s wrists and he leans forward to kiss Brendon and Brendon can feel Spencer’s cock shift inside of him and brush against his prostate and yes, _that_ is where Brendon was going with this.

Brendon always expects to get used to it, but he hasn’t yet, not the stretch or the way it hurts for a bit, just in the beginning, before the mechanics work themselves out and Spencer shifts so that every thrust has Brendon’s spine tingling. He had plans, at some point, but his hands are distracted by the wealth of slippery skin at his disposal, his mouth is distracted by the smooth skin of Spencer’s neck, where the beard doesn’t grow, and the rest of him is distracted by Spencer’s cock, which is, you know, really pretty goddamn distracting.

Brendon’s pretty sure he growls at some point, but then Spencer shifts and he presses one broad palm down on Brendon’s wrist, pinning it to the counter, and Brendon whimpers and feels his thighs tighten. Spencer always knows exactly what he wants, even if Brendon didn’t know. “Think we…just discovered…” It’s getting ridiculously hard to speak with all the damn panting he’s doing, “new kink.”

“Okay,” Spencer says absently, and lets a little more of his weight press down on Brendon, into him, and Brendon bites his lip and moans as his free hand flutters around Spencer’s shoulder before sliding downward. He’s barely even touched himself when he can feel that familiar electricity, and his hips buck up and he comes with a low moan.

“Oh,” Spencer says, surprised for a moment, but then mostly just turned on, and he leans forward to lick his way into Brendon’s mouth, snaps his hips a little stronger, shoves Brendon harder against the counter as he rides it out. Brendon’s finally starting to come back to himself, and he can feel the desire pulsing through Spencer’s skin, translates it into love, and it warms him. He tightens his muscles around Spencer’s cock, feels the surprised squeak from Spencer in his mouth, and kisses Spencer with everything he’s got until he can feel the final stutter of Spencer’s hips and the slow warmth spreading out inside him that he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop loving, even after the novelty of not using condoms wears off.

Spencer’s entire body goes lax and basically melts over Brendon, and it’s something Brendon’s teased him about before, the way he turns into play-doh after sex and how Brendon could mold him into a stegosaurus if he really wanted to. Except the only times he’s ever teased Spencer about it, it’s been immediately after sex when Spencer was basically a contented puddle of goo making it hard for Brendon to breathe, so he mostly just grunted something akin to a response and didn’t hear a word of it.

Brendon just lets it happen, now. He breathes against Spencer’s neck, trying to catalogue the smell, figure out if it’s different than every other time. Brendon knows, logically, that Spencer probably smells exactly the same as he always has, but there’s something about that crumpled piece of paper lost in the piles of laundry that makes everything just a bit sharper. Spencer smells more like love than usual.

Which is weird, because love isn’t really something he’s ever associated with a particular smell.

But that’s besides the point, because Spencer is finally starting to wake from his post-coital haze, and Brendon smiles as Spencer shifts over him, puts a little weight on his own arms and off of Brendon’s chest so he can finally breathe deep again. “Oh, decided to join me, have you?”

“Shu’up,” Spencer mumbles, but smiles and presses it agains’t Brendon’s lips before he shifts back and slowly pulls out. It’s only a moment before he shifts slightly to the side and lays right back down, draping an arm over Brendon’s chest and letting his head rest somewhere right beneath Brendon’s.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Sleepin’,” Spencer mumbles.

Brendon laughs and lets his hand card through Spencer’s hair automatically. “Here?”

“Mhmm.”

“On the counter?”

Spencer doesn’t answer, still has his eyes shut and his breathing is starting to slow.

“We have a bed, you know,” Brendon presses, because as ridiculously romantic he finds it that Spencer doesn’t mind curling up on a hard, cold counter with him, he would still prefer curling up in a soft, warm bed. But hey, if Spencer’s not gonna move…

“Too far,” Spencer answers, then swats lazily at Brendon with one of his hands, not really connecting but getting the point across anyway. “Just sleep.”

Brendon smiles, curls his fingers into Spencer’s hair, and closes his eyes.

 

They wake up to a pounding, and Brendon’s not entirely sure how much of it is in his head. The counter’s lost its warmth, as have they, laying out in the open for hell knows how long without any clothes or a blanket. Spencer’s still sort of out of it but he’s coming to, mostly because the pounding continues and winds up sound quite similar to knocking.

Brendon sits up, rubbing at his eyes and ignoring Spencer’s annoyed grunt of protest at being rolled back to the cold part of the counter. He was the one that wanted to sleep there, anyway.

Through the pounding on the thick wood of the door to their apartment, Brendon can hear someone yelling. His ears are still a little fuzzy, but he shakes his head and tries to clear his mind so he can understand what the words are.

“—so much trouble. Zack is going to kill you. _I’m_ going to kill you, and I’m going to put your heads on sticks and parade you around the city so everyone knows—”

Brendon sighs, turns to Spencer and says “Pete’s here.”

“Damnit.”

“Should we get the door?”

Spencer debates for a moment, scratches his beard, yawns, stretches, then says “Nah. He doesn’t even know if we’re here. He’ll leave, eventually.”

Brendon shrugs, hops off the counter, and watches with a smirk on his face when Spencer does the same and winces, leaning backward and twisting to try to stretch the muscles in his back. “Have a nice sleep _on the counter_.”

“You could’ve gone to the bed without me,” Spencer says, looking at Brendon with a blue that’s fucking _twinkling_ right now.

“Yes, but see, the problem with the bed is that it doesn’t have a warm body in it.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Is that all I am to you? A warm body?”

“Of course,” Brendon says immediately, grinning with all his teeth as he turns to attempt to find some semblance of clothing and also, possibly, a warm washcloth to clean up with. “Also, the sex is okay.”

“ _Okay?_ ” Spencer says, and follows quickly behind. They’ve mostly started tuning out the pounding on the door and whatever Pete’s yelling, running a dishtowel under warm water and cleaning up as best they can without a shower, finding clothes scattered all over the floor of the apartment from who knows which time they decided to have sex and needed to get naked. Brendon honestly doesn’t know why they bother getting dressed at all anymore.

Brendon’s just barely pulled on a slightly chilly pair of pajama pants when Pete’s tone changes and he yells “I know you’re in there! I can see the light change under the door! Damn it, guys, _you are going to die so hard when I get my hands on you—”_

 __

Spencer starts to snicker at the “die so hard” part but Brendon grabs his wrist and whips him behind the couch, crouching down and then chancing a quick look at the front door before ducking back down.

“What are we doing?” He asks, skeptically.

“Hiding,” Brendon answers.

Spencer stares at him.

“From Pete. So he can’t see our shadows under the door. Maybe he’ll think it was the cat, or something.”

“We don’t have a cat.” Spencer and his damn logic.

“We flew halfway across the country and got married at a chapel with a _drive-thru_ , I don’t think it’s outside the realm of possibility that we also, at some point since we last saw Pete, got a cat.”

Spencer pauses for a moment, then says “Point.”

Brendon settles down against the back of the couch and presses himself against Spencer’s side. He doesn’t have a shirt on and it’s a little chilly in their apartment. He’d turn up the heat or get a shirt or something, but it’s only a matter of time before Pete figures out they have a mail slot in their door and starts looking for them through there.

Spencer doesn’t ask, just puts an arm around Brendon’s shoulders and pulls him close, leaning in to smell his hair and kiss the top of his head.

“How long do you think before he leaves?” Spencer asks quietly.

“I don’t know. This is Pete, we’re talking about. It could be hours.”

Spencer smiles into Brendon’s hair. “A lot can happen in a few hours.”

“Don’t even _think_ about it, Spencer Smith. The lube is back in the kitchen and I’m fucking _sore_. Everywhere. There will be no more sex until I’m in a warm bed with toaster strudel and back rubs to ply me.”

“You’re a needy little bitch.”

“You’re the moron that married me.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, grinning. “I am.”

Brendon smiles, bites his lip, and figures there’s no harm in a little making out. So long as it doesn’t lead to more sex. Brendon can seriously, _honestly_ only handle so much sex in a day. Which is definitely something he never thought he’d say, or even have to think about.

But then there was Spencer.

Spencer James Smith the Fifth and his eyes and hips and sarcastic little smirk and hands and his fucking smile.

Brendon is so, unbelievably, awesomely, completely _gone._

Luckily, there’s a crumpled up piece of paper somewhere proving to everyone that he’s legally allowed—if not obliged—to be madly in love with his husband. Not even the government can tell him no anymore.

Brendon smiles, presses a series of kissing against Spencer’s neck, and laughs at the pounding on the door and the ever-more frantic yells. By now, the tabloids have probably started printing ridiculous exaggerations all over the place and LiveJournal has exploded in an event comparable to the Big Bang, but Brendon doesn’t particularly care. They’ll deal with it all when they’re done with their ‘honeymoon’ in a week or two and crawl out into the world again. For now, Brendon has what he wants.

He has everything he wants.

Brendon smiles, and lets Spencer tug off his pants again. They’re going to have to keep quiet with Pete at the door. Brendon’s ready for the challenge, though.

He’s ready for all of it.


End file.
